


scraps of memories

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, Future Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Phone Calls & Telephones, Stiles Leaves Beacon Hills, Stiles Leaves the Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 16:48:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16268339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: The night before Stiles left, Derek crawled through his bedroom window.





	scraps of memories

**Author's Note:**

> I have this fondness of Derek and Stiles spending years working their way toward each other. I don't know why. But here, have another one of those.

The night before Stiles left, Derek crawled through his bedroom window. His room looked different, barren, everything packed up and stripped away. 

He didn't like it. 

Stiles watched him, curious and wary and Derek blew out a breath. 

“If you need anything--”

“I won't,” Stiles interjects. 

Derek studies him, this boy who has seen too much, carries too much. “I know. But if you do--call.”

Derek slides the scrap of paper across the desk to Stiles, his handwriting neat and clear on it. Stiles stares at it for a long time. 

But he eventually nods, and pockets the number. 

Derek stares at him for a moment and then he turns and vanishes into the night. 

 

~*~

 

He leaves and he never does go back to Beacon Hills.

He doesn't say that was always the plan--to get out and never look back. He doesn't need to. 

He leaves and he leaves all the shit, the nightmares and dying and bloody hands and regret behind. 

He takes the tiny scrap of paper.

 

~*~

 

College is a revelation. There’s a freedom there, not from parental oversight, because Stiles has lived without that since his mother died. No, if anything he misses his father. 

But there is a freedom from expectations. 

No one expects him to run into the woods to save them, or risk his life. No one expects him to research until his eyes ache and his dreams are filled with monsters. No one expects him to broker peace because he’s the smart clever one, the one who can talk anyone down. 

No one expects him to be the flailing, awkward, nerdy best friend to Scott, and that--

That is freedom. And a revelation. 

He blossoms there, thrives in class and out of it, and he never feels guilty for that. 

But sometimes, when he is lonely, he looks at scrap of paper that lives in his wallet, that he can’t bring himself to throw away. 

He always puts it away before he can let himself miss Derek. 

 

~*~

 

He meets Addison in his Ethics class, a pretty girl with scars on her arm that he recognizes. He traces them with his eyes for days, for weeks, until he finally walks up to her and asks her out. 

She isn’t part of a pack--not anymore. She’s the daughter of an omega she wolf who went feral, who was put down by hunters, and wants as little to do with the supernatural as Stiles. 

She wears her scars on her skin, and sometimes he wished he did. They’d be easier to explain. 

It takes him almost a year to tell her about the pack, about Beacon Hills and the shitstorm that was his high school education. 

She whistled, when he did, her eyes wide and admiring, “Damn. Beacon Hills is heavy shit.” 

He nods. “I’m out though. I--I don’t want to go back. I don’t want that life.” 

She laced their fingers together and kissed them, a smile on her lips. “Good. You can stay with me.” 

Like it was simple. 

Sometimes, when he was with her, he thought he stayed because it  _ was _ simple. 

Sometimes, he thought it was because they were both afraid of being alone. 

 

~*~

 

Addison found the scrap of paper, tattered and creased, once, and gave him a curious look. 

He kissed her, and slipped it away and she knew enough to not ask again. 

They both had scars, after all, and only hers were worn on the skin. 

 

~*~

 

Stiles is recruited by the FBI and CIA before he graduates. They bicker over him for a while, before Stiles takes a job with the FBI in the BAU. 

He likes the work, likes that more often than not he’s home. He marries Addison after a year with the FBI, and he  _ likes _ his life. 

It’s quiet and sometimes the work is dark, but it’s a human kind of dark, the kind of fucked up that he knows doesn’t have anything more deadly than human evil. 

And he knows human evil, knows he can face that. 

Addison works, a high school teacher and she complains sometimes about his long hours, but it’s a good life. 

They have each other, and sometimes John come to see them. On rare occasions, Lydia does but Addison doesn’t like her, so Stiles tends to visit her when work takes him near her. 

He doesn’t go back to Beacon Hills. 

 

~*~

 

Sometimes when he’s awake and Addison is curled up in their big bed, he runs his fingers over the familiar edges of a slip of paper. 

He doesn’t think the number even works anymore, but every time he thinks about throwing it away, he stops and puts it back in his wallet. 

It feels like a shackle tying him to his old life. 

It feels like a lifeline that he can’t let go of. 

He always puts it away before Addison wakes up and he smiles and avoid all mention of the supernatural. 

 

~*~

 

When it all falls apart it’s a slow thing. 

Its long nights and blown cases and bad performance reviews and nightmares followed by mandatory leave. 

It’s not talking to Addison, and sleeping on the sofa, missing anniversary dinners and dates and vacations and knowing she was distant and lying and not caring enough to demand answers, to  _ fix _ things. 

It’s losing his job and his marriage and his house, all in a month, and he can’t even act surprised, because he knew this was coming, saw the writing on the wall and didn’t care enough to fix it. 

He woke up in a life that he built and has no idea how or why or if he even likes it, married to a woman he doesn’t love, ignoring so much of who he was that neither of them know who he  _ is.  _

He doesn’t even blame her for cheating. Addison wanted normal, two kids and the PTA, a job at the high school and husband who’d be home at five fifteen every night, who slept next to her, and  _ touched _ her. 

He didn’t blame her for that. 

For a long time, he convinced himself he wanted it too. 

But these days, he has no idea what the fuck he wants, and he knows that it’s cruel to expect her to wait while he figures it out. 

“Go home,” she tells him, the day she packs his bag and changes the locks. “You keep saying you’re running away and you don’t want it anymore, but if that were true, you wouldn’t have the job you do. Or that fucking phone number.” 

It’s the only time she’s mentioned it in all the years they’ve been married, but it’s said with such vitriolic hate that he knows the end of their marriage can be traced back to the night she watched him run his fingers over the edges of it. To the moment he chose to keep it in his wallet and refused to explain  _ why. _

He’s too tired to be bitter, and too bitter to amused, so he settles for numb. 

 

~*~

 

The night the divorce is finalized, Stiles gets drunk. 

Drunker than he has been since college, maybe ever. He starts drinking early and just never stops, and he isn’t even sure why he should at this point. 

Maybe life will be better if he’s just perpetually drunk. 

At some point, he’s kicked out of the bar, poured into a cab that takes him across town to his quiet, sad little apartment. 

Addison kept the house, in the divorce. 

He kept his impressive collection of books, a bunch of suits he doesn’t need anymore and a tiny scrap of paper that mocks him. 

He wonders, sitting in his dark, dirty living room, if he had thrown it away--would Addison have stayed. 

Would she have kept trying if he had ever  _ started? _

It’s been eight years, a handful of months and a few days. 

And he still has it, this stupid piece of a life he’s told himself time and time again he doesn’t want. 

It’s all he has left of Beacon Hills and if it were  _ Beacon Hills _ , he could throw it away. 

He doesn’t want that shitty town. His dad moved to Oregon with Melissa and Scott a few years ago, and there is nothing in the world tying him to that place now--except a stupid scrap of paper. 

 

~*~

His fingers are shaking when he calls, and he’s drunk. 

God this is a bad idea. 

But he isn’t stupid--it’s been eight years. Derek isn’t still waiting by the phone, probably doesn’t even have the same number. 

He closes his eyes and the phone rings. 

 

~*~

 

“Hello?” 

 

~*~

 

Derek sounds...older. 

But he sounds the same, achingly familiar when he should be a stranger, and Stiles closes his eyes, when tears gather and sting. 

“Stiles?” he murmurs and he sounds...hesitant. Hopeful. God, so hopeful. 

“Do you usually expect it to be me?” Stiles asks, and it’s an inane question to lead with, after all these years. 

“Expect?” Derek says, “No. But I never stop hoping.” 

Stiles makes a hurt noise and squeezes his eyes closed. “Dude, you can’t  _ say _ that.” 

Derek laughs, softly. “I got tired of what I couldn’t say years ago, Stiles.” 

There’s a long silence after that, just listening to each other breathing, and Stiles says, “I can’t believe you still have this number.” 

“I said, if you ever need anything,” Derek answers. “There wasn’t a time limit on that.” 

For the first time in a long time, Stiles smiles.

“What do you need, Stiles?” 

 

~*~

 

Stiles talks. 

He thinks about it, as he does, that he hasn’t talked like this in years, the long ramble about nothing and everything. He stopped doing that in college, listened to other people talk. He found other ways to deflect, ways that gave up nothing of himself.

But the whiskey or Derek--something makes it very easy to fall into old forgotten habits, and he rambles. 

About the years since he left. About college and everything he did there. 

He talks about Addison. 

It starts soft, almost a confession, and he is hesitant, shy--everything that weighed down the last few months before he left Beacon Hills feels like it’s suffocating him now, the weight of what they  _ could _ be. 

If he hadn’t run. 

“She left me,” he says, and Derek makes a sad noise, softly commiserating, but never pitying. Stiles closes his eyes and the world spins. 

“Do you still love her?” 

“I want to love her,” Stiles says. He’s never been good at lying to Derek and sees no reason to start now. “I think--I was fond of her. Even  _ very _ fond. But I think I loved the idea of her more than I ever loved her.” 

There’s a long silence, and then, gently, “You both deserve better than that.” 

Stiles blows out his breath. He thinks Derek is wrong. Addi does--she’s always deserved better than him. Stiles has no idea what he deserves, but he knows it’s nothing good.

 

~*~

 

“What do you do now?” He asks, when he can't bear to talk about Addi anymore, when his head aches and his buzz begins to wane. 

Derek talks then, and Stiles closes his eyes, letting his voice, familiar and strange, wash over him. 

Derek paints a life that’s quiet, peaceful. A slow life writing books and tending a bookstore. 

“Are you part of a pack?” 

“No--not formally. I’ve got Peter and Cora, and it keeps me from going omega. But I run with a local pack, sometimes, when I get the urge. They’re good, nice. Don’t pressure me too much.” 

Stiles smiles. He wants that--the lack of pressure, the quiet happiness for Derek. “You deserve that,” Stiles murmurs. “Always wanted you to be happy.” 

“Stiles,” Derek breathes, and it feels like too much, like everything he never lets himself think about. 

“She found your number, once,” Stiles says, a burst of honesty. “It was just before I started training with the FBI and I--wouldn’t explain it or get rid of it and I think that’s where i screwed everything up. She never trusted me after that.” 

“Why didn’t you tell her?” Derek whispers. 

Stiles closes his eyes. “I left, Der. I didn’t want--I _couldn’t_ stay. I didn’t  _ want _ to stay. But I didn’t want to share you. Not with her. Not with anyone.” 

 

~*~

 

“Were you happy, at the FBI?” 

“Sometimes? I felt like I was doing something good, and I was solving puzzles--and that was nice.” 

Derek is quiet, a long waiting thing. The sun is starting to come up, turning the apartment a pale gray. 

“I thought it would be good--but it was just a different kind of monster. And sometimes, when I was working on cases, weighing who to save--sometimes I felt like I was one of the monsters.” 

“How many people did you save?” 

“What?” 

Derek’s voice is sharp, and it’s not the fierce denial Stiles expected and it throws his slow, beer soaked mind off. 

“How many. People. Did you save?” 

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, softly. There were so many cases, and they faded together, a long line of nightmares and the occasional success, and did those count? Were they enough? 

“You saved me,” Derek murmurs, like a promise and lifeline, and Stiles closes his eyes and if he cries, he’s alone and no one can see him. 

And Derek would never judge him. 

 

~*~

 

They talk until Stiles is almost sober, until he’s drifting off to sleep, and the world doesn’t feel so terrible. He still feels lost, adrift--but he feels like maybe there’s something wrapped around his wrist, holding him. 

Anchoring him. 

He wakes up with a dead phone, a pounding head, and--for the first time in longer than he can remember--he feels almost hopeful. 

When he checks his phone, after a shower and giant mug of coffee, he  finds a text message from a number he doesn’t think he could ever forget. 

There’s an address there, and a familiar promise. 

_ If you need anything.  _

Stiles rubs his fingers over the screen of phone, and wonders how far he’s come, to think this is a promise he wants and not a shackle to a life he’s running from. 

Maybe he hasn’t come far at all. 

Maybe he’s just finally coming home. 

 

~*~

 

He doesn’t call again. 

He texts, sometimes, and Derek lives for those texts, the days when Stiles is rambling and content, when his messages are sharp and jaded, bitter darts of unhappiness. 

There is a part of him that wants to beg Stiles to come home--that wants to beg him to stop pretending that they aren’t happier together, better together. 

But he promised he wouldn’t that he’d let Stiles come to him, when he was ready, if he was ready. That until then, he would wait and give Stiles the space he needed. 

And he had. For eight fucking  _ years _ he has, and then Stiles called and it was like every dream he’d ever had. 

It made him ache, hearing the misery in Stiles voice, the longing he wanted to taste, wanted to soothe away. 

Eight years gone, and he still wanted a pretty pale boy who walked away. 

He’s sitting on his porch with his coffee, when a Jeep--new and sleek and black instead of blue--bounces up the drive. 

Stiles doesn’t spill out, not like he would have eight years ago, but then he thinks, this isn’t Stiles who drove away eight years ago. 

This Stiles has shadows under his eyes, new lines on his face, and broad shoulders, and a pale band on his finger where a ring should be. 

And he’s standing in front of Derek, smelling of a life Derek doesn’t know, and nerves, and hopes, and Derek--Derek can’t breath. 

“You said, if you need anything--” Stiles says, and he shrugs. 

Derek rises, and moves to stand in front of him, close enough he can feel the heat coming off the younger man. “What do you need?” he asks, and Stiles’ smile feels like coming home, like everything he’s ever wanted. 

“You,” Stiles says, simply. 


End file.
